Hideaway
by errantry
Summary: SLASH. "John never knew Sherlock thought of him like this. Hardly thought he had any interest in sex at all, let alone sex with him, but here he was. Moaning John's name."


John walked up the stairs to the flat on Baker Street, his laptop bag weighted on his shoulder. His feet were unintentionally light on the steps. His slow movements could be the cause of sleeplessness or the fact that writer's block was kicking his ass up and down the streets of London. He had just spent two hours in a dimly lit cafe, laptop open in front of him, with only two sentences written on the white abyss of a word document. He told Sherlock he'd text when he was coming home with dinner, he had hoped that would be hours from from now.

The door to the apartment was open just a crack. Sherlock most want privacy. John thought of walking back downstairs and finding somewhere to go for a few more hours. Sherlock could be in a bad mood or something.

John moved behind the door and peeked through the small opening. He expected to see the living room empty with no sign of anyone, he didn't hear a single sound. He wasn't expecting this. Sherlock stretched out on the couch. Endless expanse of pale skin. John turned to walk back out of the building. He stopped at the top of the staircase, hands balled into fists, jaw clenching. This was wrong. It had to be wrong, right? Seeing your flatmate like this. John was fighting the fact that he wanted to. He wanted to see Sherlock like this, even if it was wrong. The open door could have been an invitation, maybe Sherlock wanted John to find him...

As his feet brought him back to the crack of the door, his mind had to keep reminding him that he _wanted _this. He had thought about it countless times. At night when he tossed and turned, trying anything to relax himself. Sometimes he heard Sherlock moving throughout the flat. How he wished to be caught. The thrill of having Sherlock walk in and find him. John's mind always wandered and he pictured, wished, to have Sherlock's slim, long body on his own, to feel Sherlock's heat. And his hands. And his lips.

His vision flickered back to the couch. Sherlock's legs were splayed open, one hand wrapped around his cock. His strokes were slow and teasing. John watched his chest rise then expel a deep sigh. John felt himself hardening, pushing harshly against the now too tight fabric of his jeans.

Sherlock's head tipped back as he ran a hand slowly down his body. Rubbing across his chest, down his stomach, then resting on his thigh. John's eyes followed the movements of Sherlock's other hand. Watched his thumb slide over the head, heard Sherlock's sharp inhale at the sensation.

John cupped himself through his jeans as Sherlock's head tipped back further against the couch. A groan escaped his lips. A light groan, like Sherlock was holding back. Like he was still trying to keep control but John wanted to see him come apart. Wanted to see Sherlock loose himself, give up control and give in to the pleasure.

"John," that deep, distinctive voice moaned his name. John never knew Sherlock thought of him like this. Hardly thought he had any interest in sex at all, let alone sex with him, but here he was. Moaning _John's _name. Looking back, maybe John saw a flicker of something. It could have been at dinner on their first case together. Or maybe it was when they examined the body of the woman in pink...the way Sherlock had watched him. At the time John thought nothing of it, but now, maybe it was something. All those looks and accidental brushes of fingertips actually meant something.

John thought of all this and watched Sherlock's face. Watched how his eyelids were tightly closed, his brow furrowing at the mounting pleasure. "John." Sherlock repeated, it was breathy. Hearing Sherlock say his name like that almost made John come right then.

Sherlock's hand began stroking faster, those slender fingers working him to the edge. His hips thrust erratically into his own hand. Sherlock's moans were louder, deep and guttural. He was repeating John's name, almost shouting it, voice echoing off of the walls and into John's eardrums. His other hand moved up to fist his hair and he pulled.

"Oh god," John whispered, steadied himself by placing his hand against the wall. This was nothing like he's ever imagined, Sherlock pulling his own hair, stroking himself with such urgency. This was nothing compared to what John had conjured up in his mind. He wanted to open the door, to see the look of shock on Sherlock's face, if there even would be one. He wanted to ride Sherlock like it was the end of the world, but his feet wouldn't let him. He stayed in the stairwell, forced his eyes to stay open as his hand moved relentlessly in his jeans. Sherlock shouted, loud and piercing, John watched him spill onto his hand and stomach. John trembled through his own orgasm, he moved away from the door and rested his back against the wall. He listened to Sherlock get up off of the couch with a sigh, heard his footstep disappear down the hall.

Enough time had passed for John to walk into the flat and set his bag down. After a while he felt Sherlock come up behind him in the kitchen.

"What's for dinner?" Sherlock asked, smirking.


End file.
